


The Physics of Strength

by pinebluffvariant



Series: The Physics of Strength [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s07e17 All Things, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4895047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinebluffvariant/pseuds/pinebluffvariant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about newness is that it seems so fragile, when really it’s supple, elastic, strong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Physics of Strength

Monday morning, 4am. Who is awake? Cab drivers, bakers, strung out club kids, cops. It’s a new day.

Mulder’s bed is too soft for his own good, Scully thinks. He’s reckless, convinced he’s invincible, but his back won’t be healthy forever. Still, she draws the duvet, cover soft from years of washing, up higher all the way up to her neck, and burrows deeper into the cocoon they’ve made here, by touch and movement and instinct. 

Beyond the window, blinds down but open, the wind is making the fresh spring leaves, so delicate, flutter. The thing about newness is that it seems so fragile - the stems of those leaves so thin and brittle - when really it’s supple, elastic, strong. Newness is flexible, bold and unburdened by fear. That’s how Scully feels right now. Bold and strong, delicate and easy to bruise like a light green leaf full of chlorophyll, and bright, so bright. Not hard, but strong.

The leaves quake against the pane of glass. She knows how they feel; that quaking lingers in her belly from earlier when she came down from her orgasm, the flats of her teeth pressed against the scar on Mulder’s shoulder. His hands had hesitated for a second before pressing her hips down, picking up a rhythm again. She is surprised, grateful, excited at how well they work together. They’ll take their time next time; this time was everything it should be, fast and furious and a little clumsy. But that’s enough critique. It was perfect.

She rolls over onto her left side and finds him awake, head pillowed on a strong, round bicep. His shadowy jaw and mussed hair are brand new to her, new data shedding light on a previously unexplained phenomenon. There’s nothing not understood here, she thinks. He looks ripe and ready to savor, like a juicy apple. She wants a bite. It’s not poisoned; she is not afraid.

“What are you thinking about,” he whispers and draws her closer to him with his left arm around her middle. Is this the first time his hand has touched her there? A solid palm on her soft hip, smoothing and squeezing: he exerts force on her flesh, but her body can take the stress. Skin is a strong material.

She feels foolish, turns her face into the pillow for a second, but she can’t escape that aching sweetness and glint of curiosity in his hooded eyes.

“Um,” she starts, her voice hoarse from exertion from earlier, so it comes out as a whisper, “do you know the difference between hardness and strength?”

He chuckles, a low, sexy sound that makes her quake all over again. She scoots closer to him on her side, grabs the corner of his pillow and pulls it toward her until they’re sharing a cloud, noses almost close enough to touch.

“Did I register for Physics 101?” he grins at her in the darkness. She smiles back, gives him one of her rare squinty, toothy smiles. What is this? They’re grinning at each other in bed and it’s the most natural thing in the world. Spring brings the world buds and leaves and bird song. Spring brings Scully six feet of languid naked man against her skin, and the first night in years in someone else’s bed, a person’s bed, not a commercial bed for rent. She can stay here forever for free, her hand trapped under his ribcage in this soft bed, thumbnail working a small crescent into the soft skin between his ribs.

The rumble of his voice rouses her from her heady thoughts. “Well, professor Scully, I know I’m not a major, but Materials Science is my favorite class, so I’m gonna want to get this right.” 

His hand creeps up her side, bumping purposefully against each rib, and rests at the delicate start of her armpit. His thumb traces the underside of her breast under the covers. “I think the difference is that… the harder something is, the more difficult it is to manipulate. Now, the softer something is-”

“A common mistake,” she corrects quickly. She wiggles even closer to his body; he radiates heat and it would be a shame to waste it. She throws her right leg across his hip and snuggles up, tucks her nose under his chin and purses her lips to peck at his Adam’s apple. Her leg, under the covers, brushes his stirring erection. “Strength, Mulder, not softness.”

He lets his fingers dance across her nipple. His breath, she notices immediately, has sped up a touch. “Strength, not softness, got it. Well,” he mumbles above her, “um, the harder something is the more difficult it is to manipulate.” His hips shift against hers, leg snakes between her knees. He demonstrates with a tiny push.

“That’s right,” she whispers into the slightly salty hollow of his collarbones. HIs heart is thumping against his sternum. She’s close enough to feel his heartbeat without using her hands. It’s wondrous. 

“And strength?” she continues.

“The stronger something is the more elastic it is. So it can be manipulated without being deformed.” He presses his fingertips into the silkiest, softest part of her breast, then closes his palm over her nipple, squeezing softly.

“You pass” she teases. She feels herself growing more acutely aroused, a tension building everywhere below her belly button. Her thigh across his hip twitches, involuntarily, and the sudden press of her wet sex against his thigh makes him gasp, then exhale loudly through his nose. He leans away from her for a moment, coaxes her to look him in the eye.

“Do you want to do liquids next?”

She tugs the covers aside, suddenly, making them both gasp as the cool spring air hits their skin. She pushes the material down and aside, leaves them exposed.

His hand is off her breast and between her legs in seconds, and she laughs even through her moan, breathless at being suddenly caught in his vice grip. His leg between hers hooks around her calf, trapping her against him in their cocoon of blankets, and she winds her arms around his shoulders, fingers burrowing into his hair as she kisses him.

The slide of lips against each other is delicious. His plump bottom lip is everything his sandpapery cupid’s bow is not, and the wetness of his repeated soft kisses soothes as it follows the light scratch of his mouth against her delicate lips. His tongue darts out to flick against her upper lip, adding another sensation to her already over-full working memory. She opens her mouth and lets him in. She keeps her eyes open, tries to catch his face this close up, in the darkness. He furrows his brow when he kisses. He’s focused.

She sucks his tongue into her mouth for a moment and is overcome with a wave of blinding associations: his cock inside her, his fingers, the tip of his tongue worrying her clit, the flat of it lapping at her. She closes her teeth just for a second on his tongue, and pulls away.

“Strong,” she gasps, searching for his eyes.

“Mmmmm,” he hums and smiles. He shifts until he’s half on top of her, nudges her thighs apart with his knee and all of a sudden, through some miracle of the human body, the head of his cock nudges her swollen, sensitive labia. There’s an easy, delicious slide and they rest there for a beat, pulsing against each other.

They both let out a quiet groan. He leans down to her ear, licks the shell and opens his mouth against the lobe and whispers: “Viscous.” 

She giggles and rubs herself on him.

“Do you want to…” he asks and trails off, grabbing her hip and starting to roll her over, on top. 

“No, this is good.” Her hands have already grabbed his hips to move him into position. Her thighs are spread wide and the fit is still snug. The tendons in her groin will no doubt be uncomfortable tomorrow. She angles her hips up a bit, creates a cradle for his body the way she’s always thought she would. His energy bears down on her, hot and heavy and breathtaking. It’s good. 

He’s propped up on his arms above her, hips circling slightly. She reaches up and strokes his hair, a little sweaty from the newness of another body in the warm bed with him. She cups his cheeks and he leans into them. 

He’s holding back, so she takes control: runs her hand down his back, squeezes his ass, then scratches her nails up and around, down to his groin. He shudders. He’s ticklish.

Then she guides him inside - a flash of “should we use something?” quickly forgotten - and it’s so easy, so easy to stop thinking. She stops thinking and lets him coax gasps from her, make her soar with his hips and hands. The sharp “oh” tears from her throat within minutes. His power makes the bed creak once, twice, and then he follows her down.

The silence in her head gets quieter, quieter, until all she can hear is the rustle of leaves, the sound of waves. She breathes.

Ever considerate, he rolls off her immediately but she follows, arranges herself like a human blanket across his torso. They’re sweaty and sticky and the chill in the air puckers their nipples. His tiny one pokes her in the cheek. He fishes for the covers with his knee, lifts it and crunches his abs and manages to grab a corner with the tips of his fingers. She stops him with a hand on his forearm.

“I should go,” she says.

He lets go of the duvet and rests his hand on her lower back. “It’s a school night, isn’t it?”

“A school morning.”

“Hmm.” He’s headed into unconsciousness. She doesn’t blame him. “You can stay.”

“I want to,” she confesses quietly, “but I need to go home and change.”

Reluctantly, he lets her go. She hears the rustle of sheets behind her as she sits up, swings her legs over the edge of the bed, which sags a little. It’s too soft. He clears his throat, breathes noisily like a bear through his nose, sighs, and shifts around for comfort. When she turns her head to face him he’s half gone, eyes unfocused, licking his lips. He scratches his jaw and tries for something:

“Um, Scully, I-”

“Ssh,” she soothes and rubs his bare chest. “Get some sleep.”

“Mmh,” he manages and smiles at her sleepily. His eyes flutter shut.

Scully stands up, looks around, and realizes she’s dizzy. Her breasts feel heavy, her calves tremble. Her mouth is dry. Her thighs rub together in that delicious, stinging, messy way they do after sex. Her skin feels raw, elastic, full of collagen, full of energy. New. 

She bends down to pick up the duvet from where it hangs desperately on to the bed. As she lifts it, bundles it in her arms, her skirt, nylons, and sweater tumble onto her feet. He was so neat and careful with her things when he undressed her earlier. 

She covers him with the blanket, a soft snuffle escaping his sleeping lips when the fabric hits his skin.

She picks up the skirt, the still-folded sweater with her bra and underwear tucked safely inside, and starts for the bathroom. She leaves the silky nylons behind. 

I was here, she thinks. I’ll be back.


End file.
